Tracker

Tracker #1

by Ron Stillman

Before the accident that blinded him, USAF Maj. Nat Tracker was already a techno-soldier, a combat wonder with a dozen high-tech patents to his name. Now, the product of his scientific genius, he's designed his own computerized vision—keener than a NORAD radar installation. He's bionically perfect. Ninja-trained. The ultimate warrior against international terror.

The USAF pilot who dared a top secret maneuver over Libya is now held captive by a Cuban terrorist, a sadistic madman backed by a brigade of shock troops. But the hostage has Tracker on his side. And all the protocol in world diplomacy can't stop Tracker's mission: total vengeance.

Now Tracker's hell-bent on slaughter, one American hero against an army of killers. The Libyans have never faced a lethal machine like Tracker. But they will soon. It's payback time...

187 pages, Mass Market Paperback

First published August 1, 1990

Reviews

[Manosthehandsoffate · Rating 2 out of 5]

This is a terrible book. I debated going into some detail with example passages of how truly awful it is, but I really didn't want to put any more effort into reviewing it than the author did into writing it.

It should rightly be a one star book but I've given it an extra star because it it borders on what the movie watching world calls "so bad it's good." It's ripe with prose that could be read out loud to friends for a good laugh.

I picked up all eight of the Tracker books cheaply at a library sale. I plan to read at least one more to see if the mild entertainment value holds up and to justify my poor financial choice.

[Hugo · Rating 4 out of 5]

A book to be taken with a cellar of salt, as an inhumanly capable bionic superstud travels the world, disposing of all its villains and shagging all of its women. Seemingly written by an American teenager tattooed head-to-toe with Old Glory, Coke-addled (the drink, not the drug) adventuring presented with as simplistic a grasp of language as well as politics, and impossible to take seriously in this post Austin Powers/Garth Marenghi age.

I loved every testosterone-spattered, jingoistic flag-waving, gun catalogue page.